Behind Bars:Part Oneby Kevin Crowe

Genre:DramaSwearwords: Lots of strong ones.Description:Kathleen’s pimp is likely to be bailed and come seeking revenge on her and Brendan. With the help of a good Samaritan and one not-so-good, the pair are forced to move to an even less salubrious part of Birmingham.

Chapter Seven: Brendan

1

I heard her screaming before I saw him: Winston who had put me in hospital, beat Kathleen and broken her guitar. We both thought he was still in prison, that he'd been refused bail. I was torn between standing up to him and running away, so stayed rooted to the spot. When she yelled at him to get out and I found the words to tell him he wasn't welcome, he looked puzzled. Then he smiled.

It was only when he began to speak we realised it wasn't Winston: his voice had a higher pitch. “Didn't mean to frighten you. Should have realised you'd think I was my twin brother. I'm Clement. Mam named us after British politicians, fuck knows why.”

Still wary, Kathleen asked: “What do you want?”

Without being invited, he walked into the flat and sat down. “I'd better make a couple of things clear right away. I don't like how you make your money and I ain't got time for no battyman.”

“What's a battyman,” I asked.

Clement didn't answer. Instead Kathleen turned to me and said: “It's patois for a queer.” Looking at Clement, she said: “I don't give a fuck what you like and don't like. You still haven't told me why you're here.”

“Yeah, well, much as I ain't got time for tarts and the like, what Winston did was out of order. Men who live off women are scum. Men who beat up women are even worse scum. I love my brother, I would never want anything bad to happen to him, but I want him to stop beating you up.”

Kathleen shrugged her shoulders. “He can't do me any harm while he's inside.”

He looked up at the ceiling and hissed in exasperation. “That's why I'm here. The word is Winston's going to get bail, and the rumour is he's out to get you – and that battyman of yours.”

“How the fuck has he got them to give him bail?”

Clement just shrugged. “I have no idea. His bail hearing's the end of next week. Some of the others have already been bailed, and can't see any reason why Winston won't be as well.”

Kathleen said: “Perhaps he'll leave us alone.”

Clement guffawed. “Oh yeah, and the pigs ain't racist and battyboys don't take it up the arse and the moon is made of ganja. Get real, girl! He's been making threats inside, and he blames you for the bust.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said.

For the first time he looked at me. “I ain't speaking to no battyman. I'm talking to the tart.”

Kathleen stared at him. “Hey, let's get one thing clear: Brendan is a friend of mine. You treat him with respect or you can fuck off right now.”

Kathleen sighed. “And why would you want to help? After all we're just a tart and a queer.”

“As I said. I love my brother and don't want anything bad to happen to him. He's so mad at the moment, blaming you and – and your friend for what's happened, he could do anything. I don't want him to end up in prison for life.”

“So how are you going to protect us? Heavies outside our flats 24 hours a day?”

I was about to protest when Clement held his forefinger to his lips. I took the hint. Turning back to Kathleen, he said: “I've got a mate who rents out rooms and flats. He's got some away in Balsall Heath, far enough from Winson Green for you to be safe. And right smack in the middle of where you can still sell your shitty little body. Just you, mind: I'm not doing no battyman any favours.”

She stared at Clement for a few seconds before saying: “Oh yeah? Won't your sadistic brother come after him?”

“Probably. Not my problem.”

“Oh but it will be if he kills Brendan.”

I gulped, I was getting ever more scared.

Clement lit a cigarette, scratched the side of his face, then said: “Yeah. You've got a point, I suppose. Two bedrooms. Okay? Oh, and this ain't no fucking charity: rent monthly in advance and another month's rent as a deposit.”

When he told us the rent, Kathleen exhaled; I kept quiet. “That's a bit steep.” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “As I say, this ain't no charity, and I take my cut. I'll be collecting the rent. Anyway, I bet it's no more than you and battyboy are paying for your separate flats.”

“How the fuck do I know I can trust you?”

“You don't. Except that I'll be making a bit out of the deal. A fucking good Samaritan who makes money out of his good deeds: that's me.”

Kathleen was silent for a few moments. I was fidgeting, not sure what was happening, unsure what I'd got myself into. After a while Kathleen said: “If Winston is so fucking dangerous, won't he do everything he can to find me – to find us? Won't your mate or someone tell him? Won't Winston's cronies help him find us?”

A humourless laugh escaped from Clement's lips. “Fuck's sake. Winston ain't got no mates. Everyone hates him. He cuts his grass and speed. He cuts his coke and his smack, before he sells it, and he's not fussy what he cuts it with. He beats his tarts. He beats anyone who dares say anything to him. On a good day he'd rip you off, on a bad he'd kill you. You ain't got no worries on that score.”

“Doesn't sound like we've got much choice.”

2

After Clement left we had a row. Okay, we both had fiery tempers and often had arguments, but this one was different. I was incandescent with rage at the way she'd spoken to me, at me being excluded from the conversation, at the way she seemed to take me for granted.

At first I sulked. She asked me what was up and I just shrugged. She kept prodding me, like a child with a stick would a snake. Eventually I bit. “Don't I get a say in where I live?” I asked.

She stared at me, open mouthed. “For fuck's sake, beggars can't be choosers.”

“I'm not a fucking beggar,” I yelled. “How dare you assume you can speak for me. How dare you! And Balsall Heath of all places.”

“It's no worse than Winson Green. It's full of tarts, dealers, petty criminals and crap terraced houses. I should know: I worked the streets there for a while.”

“Well, if it's such a wonderful place, why did you leave and move here?”

“I didn't say it was wonderful, I merely said it was no worse than here. And at the moment, a lot safer for both of us.”

“Safer? Safer? And you really trust Winston's twin, do you? Do you?” I was getting louder, ending up shouting and spraying spittle. “You wouldn't even have to worry about these people if you weren't on the game! You do realise you risk being raped or killed every time you go out on the streets?”

“I'm careful, you know that. I've told you.”

“So those girls who are junkies and have had the clap are just careless? Is that what you're saying?”

“Stop twisting my words! You know that's not what I meant. Anyway there's lots of things I wish you wouldn't do. Like cottaging. You do realise how risky that is, don't you? You do realise that pretty pigs and queerbashers loiter in public toilets waiting for the likes of you, don't you?”

I was beginning to calm down. I nodded. “To be honest, I don't even enjoy it that much. Oh, I love the anticipation, laced with fear. But the act just seems so – so perfunctory and afterwards I feel so dirty.”

She wasn't about to let me off the hook. “Yeah. And you have the nerve to lecture me...”

“I'm not lecturing you. I've never lectured you!”

“Yes, you do. All the time. Telling me I ought to give up the game.”

“Well, I think you should. But that's beside the point.” I was beginning to get angry again. “You still haven't told me what gives you the right to speak on my behalf, to treat me as if I'm not there.”

“Fucking grow up, will you. You've been given notice by your landlord, Winston is out to get us both, you've got no job: basically you're fucking homeless, unemployed, in the shit and all you can do is moan, moan, moan at the only person who is trying to help you. You fucking ungrateful queer piece of shit!”

“Ungrateful? Ungrateful? What have I got to be grateful about? I get beaten up by your pimp, then you want me to follow you to the biggest shit hole in Birmingham on the advice of your pimp's brother, and you expect gratitude.”

“Oh so it's my fucking fault you were beaten up, is it? Do you think I asked Winston to beat the shit out of you? Is that what you think? Well, perhaps I should have done! You really don't know much about life, you really don't. You're no better than him, expecting the world to fall at your fucking feet. You can just piss off. And don't bother coming back.”

“That's okay by me.” I yelled, storming out of her flat into the cold December rain.

3

I wandered the streets, at first barely noticing the rain and wind. When I did, it was too late: I was soaked to the skin and shivering from the cold. I had left my overcoat at Kathleen's, actually I had left everything there. All I had was a small amount of money and a packet of cigarettes, neither of which would last long. I went into a café and ordered a cup of tea. I was still sat there an hour later when the manager asked me to leave. He told me it wasn't a doss house. The weather hadn't improved.

I was too proud to go back to Kathleen's and apologise. The very thought had my stomach churning with indignation: I wasn't the one who should apologise. I continued walking. What little daylight there had been began to disappear. I continued walking. As it got darker, the temperature dropped even further. I continued walking. When I could stand the cold and damp no more I went into a pub and ordered half of bitter. I made the beer last as long as possible, warming and drying myself as best I could, but despite sitting close to the fire, I was still cold and wet. When the barman told me it wasn't a doss house, I left. I continued walking. I had given no thought to where I was going, nor to where I was going to spend the night. I just continued walking.

I looked up and saw I was near to New Street Railway Station. I sat in one of the benches in the concourse. Having been badly damaged in second world war air raids, the station was totally rebuilt in the 1960s – arguably the most disastrous architectural decade of the century so far. The result did not meet with universal approval. Nonetheless it was warmer and dryer than the streets. The later it got, the fewer people there were and I must have fallen asleep because I was woken by a policeman who was shaking me. “You can't stop here, mate. It's not a doss house, you know.”

“Yeah, that's the third time I've been told that today.”

“Less of your lip, young man. Haven't you got a home to go to?”

“No.”

“Well, you can't stop here. Move.”

Slowly, I stood up. I was still cold and wet, and now I was stiff from sleeping awkwardly. I shuffled off, shoulders stooped and head bowed. I left the station and continued walking. I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. Without any conscious effort I just continued putting one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, one foot in the front of the other...

I'd never seen the city this late at night, or rather this early in the morning. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still damp and I had realised some time ago that my shoes were no longer waterproof, if they had ever been. The weak, ghostly light from the overhead lamps created shimmering and dappled reflections in the puddles on the road and pavements, and my exhausted brain turned them into hallucinatory mirages that disappeared as soon as seen. There was little traffic on the roads and even those shops that never seemed to close were shuttered. My hearing appeared to have been accentuated: every sound seemed to be amplified. But I could smell little: most of the pungent daytime aromas were missing most of the time, except when I passed factories that operated 24 hours a day: then I could smell the metal being worked, the dust created by endless motions of machinery and the putrid smoke from their chimneys.

I stopped to light the last of my cigarettes. As I did, I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye. I put it down to yet another hallucination until I heard footsteps. As they got nearer I saw a figure shrouded in an overcoat, the collar turned up against the weather. My first instinct was to run: anyone out that time of the night must be up to no good, but then I realised I had nowhere to run. So I waited.

“You're out late,” the voice said.

“I could say the same about you.”

“Yes, you could. But at least I've got suitable clothing, unlike you. You'll catch your death being out this late in this weather. Where are you heading?”

“Nowhere,” I replied. “Just walking. Clearing my head.”

“Well, I think we should get you indoors before you freeze to death.”

“Why would you care what happens to me? What's in it for you?”

“Nothing. Look, there's an all-night café round the corner. We could get out of the cold and wet and have a cup of tea.”

I laughed. “Oh yeah. What with?”

“I think I can afford to buy you a hot drink. What about it?” I just shrugged, though I doubt he saw me do so. He walked on and I followed until we came to the café. It was only when we entered and he unbuttoned his overcoat that I saw the dog collar. “I hope you're not going to try and convert me,” I said as I sat down, “because I'm done with all that crap. Left the church a long time ago.”

He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “No, don't worry, I won't be doing any of that. I'm just on my way from giving someone the last rites when I saw you. Did you know that between three and four in the morning is when people are most likely to die?”

“Cheerful sod, aren't you?”

He guffawed. “Only sometimes. Tea? Coffee? A sandwich?”

I realised just how hungry I was, so accepted his offer of tea and something to eat. While he was at the counter I looked round the café. It was surprisingly busy, given the time, probably because it was the only place open at four in the morning. I never realised there were so many insomniacs. Or perhaps they were night shift or emergency services workers just finished for the night. The café was basic: garish Formica tables with plastic chairs, plain lino floor and ads for food and drink on the walls. The windows were steamed up, the atmosphere was humid and smoky and the room smelled of grease, fat and cigarettes. It was however warm. I could have easily nodded off.

Perhaps it was my tiredness that led me to say something I would never normally have remarked on. “You're the first black priest I've ever met.”

Immediately I'd said it I was worried in case he would take offence. I needn't have: he jerked his head back so he was staring at the ceiling and burst out with the loudest and most sustained belly laughter I had ever heard. After his laughter subsided and he had caught his breath, he said: “There's a lot of us about.”

“I'm sorry if I offended you.”

He smiled. “You didn't. Why don't you tell me why you were out on the streets so late, and wearing clothing more suitable for summer in the park.”

So I told him about the beating, the bust and prison, losing my job and home, how we'd been offered a flat by the brother of her pimp, the row with Kathleen and how I just stormed out. “I suppose I'd better go back there and apologise or something.”

“I think if you went back now, you'd only make things worse. Best leave it until later. Look, why don't you come back to the presbytery with me? I've got a spare room. You can get some sleep and clean yourself up.”

I looked at him warily. He noticed and said: “Don't worry, I won't try and convert you. Nor will I interfere with you in any way.”

What the hell, I thought. Anything is better than tramping the streets.

I don't recall how we got to his home or what happened after we arrived there; all I remembered was waking in a strange bed with the weak winter sun shining through the window, wondering where the hell I was. I think I would have known if he had taken advantage of me.

Gradually the events of the previous day and night came back to me. I realised I was naked and that my clothes were folded on the chair next to the bed, having been washed and dried. The clock on the wall told me it was 11 o'clock.

There was a knock on the door. “Can I come in?” a voice asked. I answered yes. The priest I'd met the previous night walked in carrying a cup of tea. “Thought you might need this.”

“Thanks, erm – I don't even know your name.”

He smiled. “Graham.”

“Thank you Graham. And thanks for washing my clothes. Where's the toilet?”

He pointed. “Just across the hall,” he said. “I'll leave you to wash and dress. When you're ready, you'll find me downstairs in the kitchen.”

Later, over a late breakfast, he said: “Look, I can't offer you any advice. I don't know the people you are talking about and whether you can trust the brother of your friend's pimp, but sometimes you have to put your trust in people. After all, last night you trusted me.”

I shrugged. “I was past caring then.”

“Be that as it may, you still have to decide for yourself. Perhaps God will help guide you.”

I stared at him. “I don't believe in God.”

He smiled. “Of course you don't. But God believes in you – and in Kathleen. Look, I'm not one of those hypocrites who judges other people. Sometimes we have no choice or only limited choices. So you're homosexual. It's not a crime any more and it's up to you what you do with it. And from what you've told me Kathleen had little choice but to sell her body. I do think you should try and persuade her to give up prostitution, though.”

“I've tried. Every time she goes out working I worry she'll get beaten up or worse. But whenever I try to discuss it we end up arguing.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “I'm sure you'll find a way. Perhaps concentrate on making her feel more confident about her music?”

Chapter Eight: Kathleen

1

I expected him to return within the hour: after all, he had left everything behind, including his overcoat, and it was a cold, wet night: the sort I dreaded working. Since the “Star” had shut down, there were few options other than walking the streets, regardless of the weather. I had tried other pubs, but word had got out and no landlord was going to risk allowing the likes of me in – at least, not yet.

So street walking it was. I just hoped I wouldn't get arrested again, but I had to risk it, that and risk being assaulted: I had to earn a living, after all.

I waited in, hoping he'd be back soon, ready to apologise and to stop being so pig headed. After a while I thought “fuck it”, and went out to work, turned a few tricks, earned a few quid. I despised all these inadequate men who couldn't get it without paying, or wanted me to do things their wives and girlfriends refused to do. There were even things I refused to do, but mainly I was okay about most kinky stuff, providing the punters paid.

There was still no sign of him when I got back. Oh well, I thought, it's his funeral. I had a long bath, washing the smell of all those men off me. Afterwards, I rolled a joint and had some whisky. I tried playing some tunes on my guitar, but I wasn't in the mood.

I went to bed, but I didn't sleep much. I wondered where Brendan was sleeping, what he was doing. I tossed and turned, my mind going over what had happened, repeating the same scene. I tried to distract myself, but it didn't work. Eventually I must have dropped off.

He still hadn't returned in the morning. I lingered over my breakfast, beginning to think perhaps it was my fault he had left.

I went over all we had said to each other. We argued a lot: we both had a short fuse but usually calmed down quickly. We seemed to have the unerring ability to find the things that get a rise out of the other, combined with the inability to resist the temptation of going there.

As I thought back on my life and what I knew of his, I decided neither of us had done anything worth while. Neither of us had done a fucking thing with our lives. I can just see our gravestones now: 'They were born, they died, and in between did nothing.' He worked in a pub and I sold my body, and the rest of the time we ate, drank, smoked and slept. I didn't even fuck for pleasure, and he was so uptight the only sex he got was with rent boys or in men's toilets. Sex was anonymous for both of us. But at least I got paid for it, I suppose.

I was so tired, so tired of having my body used by men I despised. So tired. But what choice was there?

I picked up Frankie and began strumming her. I wasn't playing anything in particular, just playing a few chords, but my fingers seemed to pick up on my mood and began to play a melody of my own making, one that was slow and mournful and that segued into a 12 bar blues. I wasn't conscious of composing, it just happened. Without realising it I began to improvise on the theme, playing different chords, changing the key and time before returning to the original melody. As I played, I lost myself in the music and wasn't aware of the knocking on the door until it got so loud it entered my consciousness. Even then, I was loathe to put Frankie down. As the knocking continued, I sighed, stopped playing and opened the door.

2

We both said the same thing simultaneously: “I'm sorry.” Then we both laughed and we hugged each other. Eventually we unlocked our embrace. “What will the neighbours think,” I said, giggling. “You'd better come inside”

Brendan followed me and sat down in his usual chair. “I couldn't help but hear your playing. It was beautiful.”

I smiled. “I don't know where it came from: just something my fingers were doing.”

“Don't devalue yourself. It was really good. You ought to have had a tape recorder running.”

“I haven't got one. Surely you know that.”

He smiled. “Well, when we've moved into the place in Balsall Heath and paid the deposit, we should look at getting one.”

I stared at him, open mouthed. “You mean?...”

“Yeah. I'll give it a go. If it doesn't work out, then...” he shrugged. “Anyway, I'll get a job behind a bar somewhere so I can pay my share of the rent. And you – well, you can still earn a few quid doing what you do.” He stood up. “Why don't you continue playing, while I make us a cup of tea.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and I began playing Frankie again. He was right: I ought to get a tape recorder. I couldn't read or write music, and all these tunes that kept coming out of my fingers would be lost otherwise.

A few days later, we moved. The new place, like our old ones, was furnished, which was just as well as we had no furniture of our own. Clement arrived with a van he'd borrowed and drove us there. We pulled up outside an old terraced house, part of a street of identical terraced housing. From the outside it looked in need of some repairs, and when we entered it was clear it was in a hell of a state. The mismatched furniture had seen better days, the walls were damp and mouldy, the wallpaper was peeling off and the carpet was stained and worn. The bedrooms were no better and the bathroom was worse. The bath and the sink were crusty with rust and the toilet was black with ingrained filth. The cooker in the kitchen was encrusted with grease and fat that looked like it had accumulated over years. Both the front and back doors were draughty and warped, and the postage sized garden was overgrown. The wooden window frames were rotting, the windows themselves opaque with dirt and cracked in places. The whole place stank of decay, rot and cat piss.

“What the fuck's this? Some kind of joke!” I yelled. “This is a slum, nothing more, a fucking slum. We can't live here.”

Clement just shrugged. “Take it or leave it. Up to you.”

I looked at Brendan, who wrinkled his nose. He said: “I don't think we've got much choice. We can always scrub the place, redecorate it, clean the windows.”

“Lucky! I reckon I'd catch something if I used that bathroom in its present state. Look, how about us using the first month's rent to put the place right?”

“I'm not a fucking charity.”

“Yeah, we know that. But you're not going to be able to rent the place in this state, at least not the amount you're asking. And just think if we clean and repair it, we'll increase its value, and that'll mean down the road you'll be able to get more for it.”

He thought for a minute and said: “Okay, you've got a point. Just the first month's, you still have to pay me the deposit – now, before I leave.”

“Sure. But we'll need new beds as well: I can't speak for Brendan, but I won't be sleeping in either of the beds here. They're disgusting, probably infected with mites or something.”

“Don't push it,” he said. When I didn't respond, he yelled: “For fuck's sake, you are fussy for a tart, aren't you?”

I didn't speak. I just stared at him, hands on hips, my nostrils flared. It seemed to do the trick. “Okay, I'll get you new beds.”

“Today,” I demanded.

He sighed. “Okay. I'll bring them round later.”

“Good. And you'll get your deposit when they arrive. Now piss off and get it sorted.”

After he'd gone, Brendan chuckled. “Fuck me, Kathleen, that took a bit of nerve.”

“Phew. I'm glad he didn't call my bluff. Anyway to work. First things first, we need to get loads of cleaning stuff, then we'll start in the kitchen and then the bathroom.”

At the end of the terrace was a small general store. We must have bought their whole stock of bleach, disinfectant, cloths and other cleaning stuff, returned to our new home and began the clean up. But first of all we plugged in the record player so we had music while we worked. By the time Clement came back with the two beds, the kitchen looked passable and we had begun work on the bathroom. Before he brought in the new beds, I insisted he remove the old ones and give us time to clean the bedroom floor, so we wouldn't have to move the beds later. He wasn't too happy, but if he wanted his deposit he had little choice.

Once the new second hand beds were in place and I had handed over the deposit, he left.

3

It had been some time since I'd worked Balsall Heath and frankly I was, if not exactly scared, a bit worried. I was less than honest with Brendan: Winson Green could be bad, but Balsall Heath could be a lot worse, particularly without even the minimal security of a pimp. The other tarts wouldn't appreciate competition, particularly from someone who wasn't a smackhead, and the pimps wouldn't exactly welcome me. Worse, I no longer had a room I could take punters to: that went when I had to leave Winson Green. So I either brought them home or pleasured them in the street, and I wasn't about to bring them to my home. Even if I wanted to, Brendan would have objected. I had thought of doing what some girls in the area did, and advertise my services by sitting in the front window, tits hanging out. But I really didn't want punters knowing where I lived.

In the meantime I kept putting it off. I rationalised this by telling myself there was still so much work to do in the house, and that was true to an extent, but the time was fast approaching when we would need to find the money for the rent, and I didn't want to eat into my savings.

In a way, Clement was right: we were lucky to have an inside toilet. Many people, not just Balsall Heath but elsewhere, only had a privy in the backyard, and some people had to share. There were also houses without baths: I'd lived in one once and I'd had to use the local public slipper baths where, in exchange for money, you got half an hour of relative privacy in a lockable cubicle. Keeping yourself clean could be expensive, but who wants to fuck a tart who stinks?

The house was coming along fine, and was now habitable. We couldn't get all the rust off the bath nor all the stains from the toilet, but they were serviceable. Once it was cleaned, which was a major operation, the cooker was okay.

We'd have to wait for a telephone. I had hoped the GPO would just let me transfer the one from my old address, but apparently I would have to wait for a line to become available in my area and that could be months, and even then it might only be a party line. It was a nuisance, and I had no choice but to be patient. Brendan didn't see it as being an issue, but then he'd never lived anywhere with a telephone.

I spent some time wandering the streets, getting a feel of the area. Rows of terraced houses, some small engineering plants and garages that had seen better days, corner shops with tired looking goods in the windows, pubs with boarded windows, cheap cafés serving greasy fry-ups or curries depending on the customer base. Unemployed adults loitered on street corners smoking and looking bored. Children kicked stones along the road, getting in the way of pedestrians, buses and cars. Harassed looking mothers with screaming babies and toddlers in tow checked the prices in the shops to see what they could afford. It was all so depressing and grey, and to make it worse we knew no-one.

We had both signed on and Brendan had got a cash-in-hand job at a nearby pub. He hated it. He told me it had an oppressive atmosphere and its all white custom consisted of skinheads, assorted petty criminals, illegal money lenders and bookies, hired enforcers and other shit like that. The walls were covered with National Front posters, Union Jacks and the George Cross. Any stranger who happened to go in was treated with mistrust and rarely returned. Any black person who entered, soon left – sometimes voluntarily, sometimes thrown out if he wasn't quick enough to leave. No women used the pub, tarts or otherwise. Still, it helped pay the bills.

He told me he was thinking of looking for a job in a city centre pub or in one of the middle class suburbs, but he had no way of getting back after a shift. He had decided to take driving lessons and I thought I would, too, but the reality was we couldn't afford a car, not even the cheapest second hand rust bucket. Yet another reason for me getting back on the streets and working.

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About the Author

​Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.